


Hymns of Her Choice

by EmpressCirque



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Abuse, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Elizabeth is a Lesbian, F/F, Female Friendship, Found Family, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Ken Levine confirmed, Lesbian Character, Lesbians Kinda Die But I Promise It’s Temporary, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, No Lesbians Die, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Romance, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Will Burial at Sea appear in this fix? Probably not., Will a sequel fix it fix about Burial at Sea happen? Absolutely., Xenophobia, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressCirque/pseuds/EmpressCirque
Summary: A change to the variables was needed, she was told, but what were the variables in response to exactly? Maxie remembers something where there is nothing at all and thrown upon the game board without a rulebook, she tasked with the impossible: escape Columbia with the Prophet’s Lamb.
Relationships: Booker DeWitt & Elizabeth, Booker DeWitt & Original Female Characters, Elizabeth/OC, Elizabeth/Original Female Character, Elizabeth/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter TWs: Xenophobia, canon typical racism, mentions of death.

Her head pounds - the sensation making her skin crawl along her limbs and skull like an insect burrowing beneath the surface. The movement is rapid, so completely out of sync with everything else inside of her that it makes every part of her ache. Any tiny moment of relief is brought crashing down with each beat of her heart and each breath of air in her lungs. An itch caused by an unseen force, a presence she cannot explain. It makes her stomach float somewhere in her throat, while the shock in her limbs makes her feel like she has hit the earth after a sudden, excruciating drop. Adrenaline stains her tongue with copper and she finds herself wiping at her mouth to ensure that she has not bitten off her tongue in a nightmare induced panic.

She squeezes her eyes shut, willing away the sensations around her; going so far as to wish away the comforting weight of the blankets upon her if only to feel less trapped. Their weight presses against her chest, making the short breaths she takes painful, only adding to that unexplainable itch deep beneath the surface.

It is not as if she has not woken up to worse - been trapped in nightmares and been in pain less welcome than what she feels now, but whatever it is that has her trapped in her bed nags at her. It scrapes along her memories like that of a persistent scratch of nails along a spider’s bite. She has forgotten - what exactly that is, she cannot be sure, but she cannot deny it: she has forgotten. Maybe she never even really remembered. It rests somewhere inside of her like a memory, but withers away like a dream until it makes a hole where it once sat. Something lives inside the hole though, it screams and writhes about while it waits for her to recall something she is not sure was ever really there.

From downstairs, a man’s voice rings out. Her name echos up and into her quarters, impatient. Maybe even angry. Shortly after, footsteps begin to ascend towards her, their weight pressing further into her chest with such force that she finds it almost enough to make her scramble from bed. Before she can make the move, there is a pause and whispers before they turn back just as suddenly as they came.

She must have overslept. Unacceptable on even the most unassuming of days and even more-so today. Master Morris will be waiting for her and she is sure that her mistress will be in need of her to ready for the day. Her tardiness will not go unnoticed, even with the others preparing food and finishing their tasks. If she does not rise soon, what little forgiveness she might earn will be thrown aside for a harsher outcome.

Yet, she still finds the feelings assaulting her mind to be too much to continue. It is not so simple as ignoring them, for the way they smother her physically is enough to make simply rising a nearly impossible task.

What is it then that she cannot recall?

“Unfortunate.”

“What is that, brother?”

Every muscle locks into place, even the twitching of her fingers stops. Her body plunges into a fear that leaves her feeling as though she is sinking into the biting cold of the ocean. The voices that fill the small room, unwelcome and unknown, are foreign to her and she has to take a moment to ensure that she has not fallen back into a deep sleep.

“It is all beginning to affect her.”

“How so?”

“The doors between our worlds are not so tightly sealed, sister.”

“Ah, I see what you mean.”

She peeks an eye open, telling herself there is nothing to fear, like the skip in a record. All the while, stories of the Fair Folk play out in her mind - her mother’s voice urging her to ignore their falsehoods, lest she be taken away from this world and trapped in their own. The smaller part of her begs to listen, while a part of her too curious to heed such warnings begs her to press forward.

“Perhaps it best to stop surprising her,” the very much deceased Rosalind Lutece says, standing at the end of her bed. Her hands are folded in front of her, almost expectingly so. Her tone, though, is matter of fact and yet dripping with amusement directed at her own confusion. As though she finds her very being a show for her own amusement. It makes a great distaste for the dead woman smother over the fear she had felt before.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” she says, voice still edging on shaking with unease. “You two’re dead.”

“She does not sound so certain.”

“Then there may be hope for her yet.”

The man, she recalls his name was (is?) Robert, steps forward and she instinctively moves back, pressing into the headboard behind her with enough force to make the wood emit a groan. He pauses and she thinks she might see the briefest glimpse of sympathy cross his gaze before he returns to that of a porcelain doll. Him, she decides, she likes much better than the woman.

Maybe they really are dead.

“You’ll be needing this.”

He offers her a key, holding it delicately between his thumb and pointer fingers. He seems unbothered by the weight the thick iron must possess, gracefully balancing it as though it is nothing more than a feather. To her though, it looks foreboding - almost as though she is sealing her fate by taking the item into her own grasp. Perhaps that is why she makes no move to accept his strange gift, and perhaps that is why he proceeds to spin it back and forth, as though that might change her mind.

She frowns when her eyes catch something - a bird, engraved into the metal, passes by with each turn of the key. A cage follows.

The images call to her, pulling her body forward until she is leaning forward onto her palms to watch them dance before her. Suddenly, they merge and she feels her lips pursing with childlike glee before cautiously reaching to take the object from him, “Why might I be needing this? And what purpose do two ghosts have offering it up to me?”

“We are in need of a change to our variables, or so my brother thinks. The smaller, the better. We might just be getting close.,” Rosalind replies, turning to her brother, who nods in acknowledgement. “Now that you hold the cage, we shall see if it is enough. Are you jailer?”

“Or savior?”

“Enough? Enough for what?”

She looks back to the strange key, twirling it in her hands and watching the images merge together once more. When not reply comes, her fingers halt, bringing the spin to an abrupt stop and leaving her only the image of a bird to see. She glances back towards the twins, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and annoyance at their cryptic nature, only to find that they have vanished just as quickly as they came.

“Strange dreams and now I’m seeing ghosts,” she muses, looking back towards the heavy key in her hand, “Next thing you know, they’ll be locking me back up and throwing away an entirely different key, eh?”

After some time, too long really, she reaches out towards the unwanted table at her bedside and gathers up the silver chain that sits next to the smothered lantern that grants it a lone source of company. It feels cold in her palm, as though it has been left to fend for itself upon the streets in the dead of winter. It makes her recall the story of the little girl with her matches her eldest brother had read her once in her youth. With caution, even more than when she had taken the key from two dead strangers, she grasps the weight at the bottom, examining the locket as though its chill is a trick and it may burn the tips of her fingers with an unwelcome hatred.

She shakes the thought off and lets it falls, unclasping the ends and sliding the strange gift down to meet it. Strange as it is, she cannot help but feel it is important and that before the day ends, she will find some use of it yet.

With her task finished, she rises from the bed, not bothering with the tangled mess of sheets behind her. She is already late and while Master Morris had showed unexpected compassion moments ago, she knows that it will not last long. So, instead, she gathers the clothing laid out and provided for her the night before and strips, buttoning and tying the new ones like an unwanted skin that suffocates her own. A costume fitting a role that has consumed her like a snake consumes a rat.

As she heads to the door, she pauses as the mirror, twisting and fussing with her hair one last time before pulling open the barrier of mock safety and descending the stairs. The smell of warm food slowly rises as she meets the last thresholds of her world and their own, and her mouth begins to water at the thoughts of warm biscuits and meats that hide away nearby. She ignores the gnawing in her belly and continues on, descending the next flight of stairs with more uncertainty than the last.

“You’re late,” her mistress calls. Her back is to her, but she can still see the disapproving glare reflected back at her on the freshly cleaned glass of the window. “If today were not cause for celebration, I would not see it fit to be so forgiving. Though, if we find ourselves at all tardy because of your rude desire to oversleep, I may see fit to forgo this gift.”

She says nothing in response, feeling the weight hidden under her blouse stinging at her mind and begging for attention. She had nearly forgotten the Fair today. She is lucky that her master and mistress are in such jolly moods - though she cannot help but wonder for how long.

“Maxine. Are you listening to me?”

 _Maxie,_ she wants to correct her. _It’s Maxie, you awful shrew._

Instead, she answers with an obedient, “Yes, ma’am. Your forgiveness is a blessing that I shall not waste. How may I assist you? Your corset seems loose - shall I retie it?”

Miss Morris scoffs, but she can see the faintest bit of pity in her eyes as she watches her through the reflection. No doubt the woman is questioning her intelligence, wondering if Fink had somehow conned her out of a proper maid. Maxie nearly screams at the very idea that she would be as respected with such status in this household.

“Your accent, Maxine. It is too thick this morning for my liking - do keep your lips tightly sealed today. We do not want any embarrassments.”

Her jaw clenches tight and she bites at her tongue, willing away the hateful words and suddenly very conscious of her thick, Irish brogue. It burns her cheeks with an unwarranted shame and she resists the urge to slap the woman for her rude behavior. It would only land her in a cell, or maybe worse if her luck ran dry. So, she does the only defiant thing she can and voices her agreement, not bothering to hide her tongue for one last moment,

“Yes, ma’am. I apologize, ma’am.”

“Yes, I suppose you do, Maxine. Come then, help me dress and wake Thomas. My husband is waiting for us and we shan’t delay so rudely any longer.”

With a deep exhale, Maxie nods and steps forward to begin the trials of the day. Her strange encounter vanishing like a dream and plunging her into the unwelcome realities of the world.

* * *

Ten years, Maxie muses, glancing at the balloons and confetti that fly through the wind around her. Ten years and the floating city continues to thrive like a parasite in the belly of the beautiful beast. She hates all the faces surrounding her, their masks and smiles taunting her with their undeserved joy. Her hand tightens slightly and she hears Thomas whimper with displeasure at her side.

“Maxie, you are hurting me.”

She pauses in her thoughts and looks to the boy, frowning deeply and moving to kneel beside him, a sad smile tugging at the sides of her mouth as she speaks, “Forgive me, Master Thomas. I was lost in thought - did I harm you?”

“No, I think it’s alright,” he mutters, a tiny smile making his chubby cheeks look even larger than before. It fills her with a tiny speak of joy and she smooths back his hair one last time. “Maxie, can we go to the fair now?”

Maxie. She hums and shakes her head, “It is Maxine here, Master Thomas. You wouldn’t want your mother to hear you speaking in such ways. Be a good boy and I’ll be sure that you get your fill of sugar after the raffle, lad.”

“Yes, Miss Maxine,” he says, once again barely above a mutter of shyness. It makes her frown and worry for the boy, but it is all she can do to rise to her feet and pull him to her leg, hand pressed against his cheek in a mockery of a hug. The boy needs more comfort than his parents provide him, she muses sadly as he grips at the sides of her skirts (new and pressed, just for the occasion. A gift, Miss Morris had claimed, but a gift she would have tossed over the sides of the city had she any choice.). “Where is mother? She promised she would come.”

“I’m sure she will meet us there,” she lies, “After her shopping. Today is a special day, Master Thomas. So lucky are we to be welcome in this city, and so lucky am I to have you as my charge. Do not forget our blessings, lad, and thank the Prophet for his generosity, eh?”

The boy smiles, his grip on her leg tightening with affection. She reaches down and pinches his cheek before motioning ahead, “To the Fair then? Perhaps we can win you a new prize for the collection - what might you like? I have heard talk that the newest Songbird toy has been released. We could add it to the others.”

Thomas slips his hand into her’s as they walk and Maxie takes special care to watch her pace as the continue towards the colorful tents. She knows he has trouble matching her pace and wonders if it best to carry him instead. Nearby, she can hear the joyful singing of The “Bee” Sharps and finds the weight in her head dissipating as she looks back to her charge, “Well, Thomas?”

He frowns and keeps his gaze forward, though she notices the way his tiny fist moves to meet his mouth - she must break him of that nail-biting habit before his father notices, “I do not like The Songbird, Miss Maxine. He frightens me - the other boys say he throws bad children off the city to the sinners down below.”

“The other boys only say that to frighten you. Do you know why?” She asks, waiting until he shakes his head to finish her reply, “They are scared of how brave you are, Thomas. So, keep showing them just how much courage you have, lad. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Maxine.”

“That’s my boy,” she smiles and guides Thomas away from a man offering samples of one of Fink’s latest Vigors. The colorful lights are enough to grab anyone’s attention and she finds no small amount of disgust that they would be offering samples around such small children, “Now, why don’t we try the ring toss? I think I see a sweet teddy that could use a home with us.”

With new excitement, Thomas charges forward, jumping hurriedly next to the stall. The game master smiles widely as he offers the boy a small handful of rings and points to the bottles laid out before them as he explains the rules, but when his eyes meet Maxie’s own, she cannot help but notice the falter in his voice. The disgust in his eyes as they wander from her feet to her hair - nothing she isn’t used to, of course, but she cannot help but worry for her charge. Worry of what assumptions have crossed the man’s mind.

“Master Thomas,” she calls, taking great care not to move too close, but still close enough to direct the man’s attention to her words, “only a few games. Your mother is waiting for us at the raffle!”

The man seems appeased - finding disgusting comfort in the fact that Thomas is not her own son. In turn, she feels a burning in her stomach that makes her vision red, though she is careful to only grip her skirts a bit harder in her anger. The touch of the fabric is grounding and cool, a relief from the heat that makes her eyes water. No need to cause a scene - so she breaths in and out. Counts them and hopes that the day will come to a peaceful end. She closes her eyes and imagines herself back in the warmth of her bed, blankets wrapped around her and keeping the rest of this awful city away for just a few hours.

A shame those hours were so fleeting.

Someone collides with her, hitting against her shoulder and causing her to stumble towards the ground in her surprise. Her thoughts shatter, crashing before her like glass. She gasps and readies herself for impact against the stone, squeezing her eyes shut tighter and moving her hands forward in a vain attempt to stop the impact. Someone grabs her before it comes, pulling her back to her feet and steadying her with a firm grip that reminders her of her father. It brings her comfort and makes her the churching hatred in her stomach begin anew.

“Are you alright, miss?”

She slowly opens her eyes and stares back at the man, mouth agape and at a loss of words. She had been ready to shout at the pain of the impact and now her brain scrambles to replace it with something else. So, she fumes instead, eyes narrowed and frustrations of the day piling on once more, “Quite alright, though had you not been so careless I might have been spared the trouble all together.”

The man, much older and dressed in strange attire, seems just as surprised by her ire as she is. So surprised in fact, that her stomach drops and aches something fierce. He looks like a detective, she muses, from one of her Mistress’s books: gruff and world weary, with eyes that pierce into any soul and make them confess dark truths. It is then that she notices the holster at his side and wonders if he is in the employee of The Founders - it does seem that more of their forces are out than usual today. Though she suspects it is due to the Prophet’s visions and paranoias as of late. Perhaps he is meant to blend in amongst them?

“Forgive me, sir,” she mutters, looking back down and hoping that her worries are unfounded. “I meant nothing by it.”

“No harm done,” he pauses and she takes the moment of his distraction to glance towards Thomas, who is thankfully lost in his game. She can’t have him approaching strange men, no matter how idealistic the Prophet claims the city is. Finally, whatever distraction had caught the man’s attention seems to fade and he looks back to her, moving his hands from her shoulders (she notices now how grim he looks. As if he has not smiled in years and his face has etched itself permanently into such a serious expression). “I’ll be out of your hair then. Enjoy your…”

A pause, just long enough that she finds herself raising a brow in confusion at the man’s odd behavior. He forces a smile, it looks unwelcoming and makes her nose crinkle with discomfort as he continues, “Holiday.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.”

Just then, she feels the tugging on her skirts and looks down to find Thomas watching the man with distrust. She wonders if he has noticed the same strange air about the man that she had. Comfort, she thinks, is what the boy needs in such a situation. So, she kneels to him, smiling and offering her best expressions of joy at the new teddy in his arms, trying her best to ignore the man beside her. Thomas’s eyes light then, the distraction from what she decides must have been her own discomfort tainting his mood vanishing. When she turns to wish the man good day though, the unease returns - he has all but vanished.

Rude, she thinks. So very strange and rude.

“A few more games then, Master Thomas,” she states, finding herself hesitating with each word as a chill causes the hair upon her arms to rise, “Then we shall go and meet your mother at the raffle. Come then.”

Maxie smiles at her charge and squeezes his hand softly, ignoring the pit in her stomach and the writhing that has returned from the morning. Something is very wrong. Perhaps, she admits, the Prophet is right in his paranoia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fine, let’s start with names,” he sounds annoyed, like when her father had been bombarded with her and her siblings seemingly endless energy. She wonders, briefly, if he is a father. “Booker. Booker DeWitt. No more calling me the False Shepherd, alright?”
> 
> He offers her his hand and every bit of Maxie’s being yells at her not to take the bait, to protect herself first. She ignores her thoughts, shaking his hand and pushing back the surprise painfully sitting in her chest, threatening to climb up her throat. She swallows and nods, “They call me Maxine McMurphy, though that’s followed by a swift punch to their nose. Call me Maxie. Pleasure is all mine Booker - you look like a Booker, old man.”
> 
> “Don’t call me that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs: Violence, canon typical racism, child abduction, violence against women, mentions of death.

The raffle envelopes the park as it does every year - with the mask of bright, patriotic colors and the overflowing voices of attendees. Only on occasion does she meet the eyes of someone with the same somberness and anxiety visible on their face as her stomach churns with. This is a time of joy to the citizens of Columbia and she is careful not to let anyone see her spoil it for fear of the consequences. Instead, she holds her head high and shoulders back; she curls her fingers tight, watching as Thomas searches the crowd for his parents. Absent as she expected, no doubt too caught up in their own idolized moods to remember their young son. Maxie knows what comes next - feels the dread building in her stomach as the blood pours through her ears until things are deafeningly silent.

She will have to rush the young boy away soon. Pry his eyes from the stage set before them and guide him to a place free of the hatred only hidden away by velvet curtains. The raffle brings a heavy air and she can feel eyes upon her flesh like flies burrowing into her wounds to lay their rotten eggs. Everything surrounding them is festering and she has to choke back bile.

“Master Thomas,” she mutters, voice quivering with unwelcome anticipation, “It is time we leave.”

The young boy frowns, gripping tightly onto her skirts as he scans the crowd once again, “Maxie, I cannot find mother. She promised she’d meet us here.”

Jeremiah Fink makes his way forward, looking every part the villain of the story. Slick and commanding - he grabs the attention of all those in the cramped area, effectively interrupting her ward without saying a word. The bile in her throat rises again and she is forced to bring a hand to her lips. Her shoulders ache and eyes narrow at the bastard, as though she might force him to drop dead if she focuses hard enough. Still, the weight of his personality fogs the air until it is so thick she can hardly breath.

The cheat turned businessman shouts out into the crowd - his voice thundering about the courtyard until it feels that her insides are reverberating with its force. She cannot breath, she can hardly understand a word from his mouth, her heart races up into her throat.

“Maxie?” Thomas’s voice is so small between the hammering in her head, “Maxie, what’s wrong?”

She squeezes her eyes closed. Smiles. Opens her eyes and ruffles the boy’s neat hair, “Just fine, Master Thomas.”

From the sidelines, she sees one of the Founder Soldier’s glare at her contact with the lad. The hand falls to her side and she focuses her attention forward, ignoring the way the hair on her neck stands up as hateful eyes rest upon her. His gaze could almost brand her skin with their heat. She takes a small step away from Thomas, just to be more precautious.

“Now, isn’t she just the prettiest white girl in Columbia?” Fink booms into the crowd, motioning towards a woman clad in her most patriotic attire. Maxie frowns. Fink continues, “Alright then! The winner is... Number seventy-seven!”

She hears a woman shouting, catching glimpses as she waves to a man in the crowd. The crowd cheers, adding to the deafening noise that fills her head. It feels as though she is underwater, she cannot think clearly. Her frown grows; Maxie recognizes this man. The stranger, who still reminds her of a novel’s mysterious detective, stands just out of place amongst the rest of the citizens. The curtain begins to rise, Fink joyfully cheering the man on.

Instead, all Hell breaks loose.

People are screaming and by the time she opens her eyes, one of the Prophet’s soldiers, the same man who had glared daggers into her flesh, is whisking Thomas away from her. She screams and reaches for his outstretched hands; grasps on tight, his tiny fingers so delicate in ways she has never realized until this moment. The boy is crying, his screams cycling between calling for her and his mother. Suddenly, someone wraps their arms around her, tugging her with enough force that their hands slip - his small fingernails scratching into her palms with such force that she is sure she feels blood welling up from the wounds. She scrambles, twisting and turning in the grasp of her captor.

“Calm yourself, you simple wench!”

“Let go, I beg you,” she kicks, tries to make contact with the soldier’s groin, “That boy is my charge!”

“We’ll be seeing about that when we find his mother, bog trotter,” he growls into her ear, his grip so unpleasantly tight against her breasts. Tears sting at her eyes as she struggles to breath, panic and worry settling into her chest. It curls like a snake, waiting to strike deep in her heart. Thomas vanishes before her eyes, pulled away to safety and yet, away from her. “Now, what would a wench like you be doing here?”

The man’s mouth is so close to her ear, she can feel his breath and still smell his morning meal. She screams and kicks harder, anger replacing her emotions so quickly it makes her stomach sick. The man smiles, “Not so mighty now, are you? Your kind isn’t welcome here, _lass_.”

Maxie screams and gives one last, hard kick. She finds her mark, connecting with the bastard’s knee and she is shoved to the ground. It buys her only seconds and as she struggles to her feet, the soldier grabs at her ankle, pulling her back to the ground with such force that her head nearly makes contact with the stone beneath her. She uses her free foot to kick at his fingers, only for her other ankle to meet the same fate. The man snarls and pulls her towards him, scrapping her arms and knees against the tiles.

“You little whore,” the soldier mutters, pulling out his baton, “you’re going to pay for that.”

A shot rings out and Maxie squeezes her eyes shut yet again, waiting for pain to fill her body - dead weight slumps against her chest. Her breath stops and she peaks an eye open, only to see a bloody mess forming from deep wounds on her attacker’s back. With a gasp, she struggles free, shoving the weight off of her and crawling away. When she glances to her savior, the stranger stands before her and she catches what had caused the chaos around them.

A.D.

The False Shepherd.

“Miss? Wait, I just—”

She does the opposite, running forward until her breath stings her throat and her feet ache. The man’s voice calls for her to come back before vanishing beneath the pounding her her steps. Her hands are prying open a door before she can fully register her escape, slamming behind her as she twists and turns before coming to a halt, nearly tripping over the rug within her newfound hiding spot. She takes in her surroundings, breathing deep in a vein attempt to catch her breath and calm her hammering heart. The Blue Ribbon, she recognizes the place, only having ever been inside to accompany her mistress, but nonetheless, the emptiness outweighs the memories. She finally feels safe from the chaos, free of the Prophet’s visions.

“We have company.”

“We do indeed.”

She turns, sharply, so quick that what hair had not fallen out of place from her previous ordeals begins to cascade down her back. She resists the urge to reach back and fix the mess she has become. She seethes, “Have you made a habit out of stalking me?”

“Stalking?”

“Perhaps it is you who is stalking us,” the woman counters, her tone still so smug that Maxie wishes she could wrap her hands around her throat. What good would violence do against a women who is already dead, she thinks. “Ah, I believe I hear another guest.”

“As expected.”

“Some things never change, as they say.”

She turns, not knowing what to expect and yet feeling as though she has lived this moment before. Her head aches and Maxie does not fight the urge to press into the bar when the False Shepherd appears before them.

He frowns, looking between her and the dead twins, “You two again. Why are you following me?”

“Perhaps it is you who is following us.”

“I...” The man sighs and Maxie notes that his finger still rests upon the trigger of his gun. Her mouth feels so dry and the man cautiously takes steps towards her, his unburdened hand reaching towards her as though she is some frightened animal. So, as if to prove him wrong, she snarls.

“Stand back! Not another step, False Shepherd,” she is amazed by the confidence beneath the shaking of her voice. She certainly does not feel it elsewhere, much to her annoyance, but she decides quickly that bravado in such a situation is foolish. “Anyone who associates with dead men is no friend of mine.”

“Yeah? I just saved your life, miss,” his voice is so commanding that she thinks back to her father in Ireland. It makes her chest burn and she finds it curious that he seems to brush aside her final statement. “At least let me ask if you’re alright.”

“Pretty as a peach,” she mutters, before motioning to his gun, “Thank you, I suppose, but if anyone saw what you did for me, they’ll see me thrown over the edge of the city.”

“Dead men tell no tales,” he says and she swears that he must have never spoken anything of a joke in all his days. His face falls, a deep frown forming and she can see just why he has such deep creases upon his face. “I’m looking for a girl.”

“The Lamb,” she confirms, fully aware of the Prophet’s warnings. “You’re looking to steal away the Prophet’s Lamb.”

“Strange thing to call someone, but if that’s who I’m looking for,” he trails off, searching through the pockets of his vest, “Here. You know how I can get here?”

She can feel the dead pair watching them, but makes no comment on the fact, instead taking the postcard from the stranger, the thick card stock comforting against her fingertips. Monument Island, gorgeous as it is, towers over the downtrodden like a giant, a reminder that this city will share none of the hope with them that it does with her citizens. So, she shrugs and sighs, carefully offering it back to the man before admitting, “I do, but the Founders will have their eyes on her. No one’s allowed entry to the island, it would be a death sentence even for the best of the city.”

“Your Prophet is that paranoid?”

“Seems he had the right idea, seeing as you showed up.”

The man laughs, though it sounds weak, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but it ain’t prophecies. Every conman has a trick.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, either way you’re here and he knew you would be,” she argues. After a brief pause for thought, she continues, “Why do you need the Lamb?”

“My business is my own.”

“Do you want my help or not?” It’s a threat, a weak one, but it still makes her feel as if she has gained the upper hand in her questioning. When he frowns (Well, he was already frowning, wasn’t he?), she smiles over her victory. “Where are you taking her?”

He lets out a deep breath, drawing it out as his dark eyebrows knit together. She notices now how the red scarf tied around his neck brings out every bit of exhaustion lining his face - wrinkles to mirror his own. Finally, he answers, slowly as he carefully chooses his words, “New York. I have a... benefactor.”

“You plan on selling her?”

He doesn’t answer, but she still grins.

New York - a chance to start over, she thinks. She could finally be free of this life and who knows, maybe she’d even get treated like a human being for the first time in years. It could be grand; no one would know her face and name. She could become anyone, erase her past and ignore the scars left in her mind. She could even take Thomas if—

Thomas.

She pales and looks back to the man. Determined, as always, Maxie is quick to think of a plan - and a threat, “I’ll help you, but I’ll need something in return and you sound like just the man I need.”

“I’m done making deals, miss.”

“You need me, more than I need you,” she lies. “Take me to New York. All I need is the clothes on my back - once we’re in the city, I’ll go on my way. In exchange, I’ll take you to Monument Island, show you the best ways around. We’ll be in and out.”

The man frowns and shakes his head, “Too simple. What’s the catch?”

“You aid me in finding one last person. My charge, rather: Master Thomas,” she says, feeling tears stinging at the corners of her eyes once more. The lad must be terrified, perhaps even believe her dead. Would he be safe with the Founders? Would he find his mother? “Your ruckus at the raffle today ended with him taken from my side by the Prophet’s men. You owe it to me to find the boy.”

The man laughs and despite his appearance, she’s surprised to find that it is rather jovial (though there is no denying the underlying sarcasm it holds), “No deal. I’m having trouble enough finding one person in this city.”

“He may wish to rethink that,” one of the Luteces, the woman, chimes in behind her and Maxie turns to watch them. The woman turns to her brother and raises a brow, the only sign of real emotion on her face she has witnessed since they came suddenly into her life. “One may find allies useful in his situation.”

“Indeed. He is rather eager to break into a cage without a key.”

“ _The key_.”

“The key.”

Almost instinctively, Maxie’s hand rises and grasps at her chest, the thick corset hiding any sign of the strange gift she had received only hours ago. The man watches, then says, “They gave you a key?”

“Seems that they gave me _the key_ ,” she mocks, childlike glee already rising in her chest. She pulls the chain free, releasing both her locket and the gift from her breast. Delicately, she grasps the heavy metal in her hand and raises it to their eyes, a wicked smile on her face, “Do as I say, or I throw it over the city - should make your task here rather difficult.”

“Impossible,” the male Lutece quips.

“What’s stopping me from taking it from you?”

“You still need a guide,” she answers, certain even he knows his task will be both faster and safer with her at his side, “And you don’t seem the man to assault a woman for something as simple as a key.”

He frowns, “And what if I just drop you off at the nearest balloon once I have the girl?”

“First of all, it isn’t balloons, but more importantly, you give me a sendoff against my will, I tell the girl you plan on selling her away like an animal for slaughter,” she can feel her grin growing wider. Maxie may not be the smartest person, but she knows when she has someone beat. They both have something the other wants and she takes him for a gambling man.

“Did you two know about—,” the twins are gone, just as suddenly as they had been that morning. Vanishing like ghosts in the air and Maxie is beginning to think that just might be the truth. He grunts, showing only the faintest surprise (has he been dealing with their strange antics all morning as well?) and suddenly he’s shoving his gun into her hands, “Someone watching my back may not be the worst idea you have in that head of yours, but I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain. I need your help, you provide, got it?”

“Aye, I got it loud and clear, but I don’t expect anymore of your weak threats thrown my way,” she snarks back; it certainly helps that he’s old enough to be her father, “All will go smoother if we show one another some respect.”

“Fine, let’s start with names,” he sounds annoyed, like when her father had been bombarded with her and her siblings seemingly endless energy. She wonders, briefly, if he is a father. “Booker. Booker DeWitt. No more calling me the False Shepherd, alright?”

He offers her his hand and every bit of Maxie’s being yells at her not to take the bait, to protect herself first. She ignores her thoughts, shaking his hand and pushing back the surprise painfully sitting in her chest, threatening to climb up her throat. She swallows and nods, “They call me Maxine McMurphy, though that’s followed by a swift punch to their nose. Call me Maxie. Pleasure is all mine Booker - you look like a Booker, old man.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Ain’t it true?”

“It’s rude.”

“Never said I was anything but,” she’s laughing now, the first time she’s laughed today at something so ridiculous - the first time she’s laughed because there’s _hope_ for once in her life. The city will be nothing more than a bad memory soon - she’ll be able to live her life and she’ll be damned if she isn’t taking Thomas with her. The boy deserves better than this. So, carefully, because she’s been raised to know when she owes thanks, she mutters, “I appreciate your help, offered willingly or not.”

“Why don’t we safe the thanks for when we’re out of this floating trap,” he says, giving her a firm pat on the back. She stumbles and mutters a curse when he suddenly continues forward, not bothering to wait for her to catch her balance. It doesn’t take her long to catch up though and when she does, she delivers him a quick punch to the arm before laughing as she takes the lead.

**Author's Note:**

> i) All I can say is: Elizabeth is a canon queer character, Ken Levine said so and I’m sick of seeing people think up non-excuse to ship incest because they’re so desperate for heterosexual relationships. That being said, bless Jack/Elizabeth.
> 
> ii) I’m still not sure if this fic will end up having explicit sexual content, but we’ll see. At the very least, I may write something in the future related to this.


End file.
